


Even Ever After

by Ashida



Series: 15 a Piece Prompt Challenge [20]
Category: Gangsta. (Manga)
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Guns, M/M, Prompt Fic, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 12:53:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7802617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashida/pseuds/Ashida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because in Ergastulum there is no such thing as happy ever after, especially with Nicolas Brown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even Ever After

**Author's Note:**

> Part of a collection of 15 prompts given to me by [Hiro.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/oninoshirosaki)  
> The prompt for this fic is [#126 - Dying ](http://insane-1.deviantart.com/art/200-Writing-Challenge-68163506)
> 
> Self edited.

There was a first time for everything, even for someone like Worick. He didn’t have such moments very often anymore, but now was one of those times.

 

For the first time in Worick’s life; he thought he was seeing things. Seeing things through his eyes that’d _never_ failed him before, yet here he was at Bastard with disbelief clogging his throat, bitter unease grit between his clenched teeth.

 

He wasn’t one to deny the impossible, he’d seen the impossible happen time and again, but _this_ was something he never thought would come to fruition. Something he didn’t even know how to react to, or how a certain someone else would react, either. Shit.

 

Playing security at Bastard with Nic was always meant to be an easy job no matter what night it was, weekends or theme nights, cocktail parties or business events, keeping things in line was a cinch for them, because you didn’t play up with The Handymen about.

 

He thought it’d be like any old job they had here, he’d walk around the building a few times while Nic stood his omnipotent vigil on the rooftop, Worick would fend off men and women alike who tried to come onto him with their alcohol tainted breath and lust clouded judgment.

 

They’d stay until the early hours and everyone was either passed out, gone, or safely tucked up in their brothel rooms for the night. There’d be one last check of the building and they’d get to go home together and fall into their own nighttime routine without a word said, and Worick always took that time to himself, to wait up as Nic fell asleep in his basement chair so he could see him properly for the first time that night. Doing security sucked, because they were always apart, and it grated on Worick more than he could say, not that Nic would hear his complaints about it anyway.

 

But no, he knew that definitely wasn’t going to happen tonight, he knew it the instant he saw that person walk through the door, and of course Worick did a double take. Who wouldn’t? Even Nic probably would, but Nic wouldn’t show it.

 

Maybe it was the throngs of people, the barely clad workers adorned in seduction and cheap perfume, or the even cheaper suited men whose wives were probably waiting for them at home, maybe it was the pockets of rich playing poker at the corner tables, or the cliché hue of smoke lingering above to burn out his vision, any of the above. All Worick knew was that he was doubting what he’d seen, and before anything else tonight; he had to erase that doubt.

 

*

 

He did the usual rounds, tried to eye up any potential trouble in the masses, and as usual he found none, nothing that the girls couldn’t take care of themselves, anyway.

 

So he did the rounds _again_ , looking for that unforgettable frame, and just as he thought he was probably losing it after all, actually losing his fucking marbles to imagine the entire thing; he saw him.

 

It was Gaston _fucking_ Brown. Nic’s old man.

 

It was disgusting how eerily similar the angle of his shoulders were to someone that he called partner, and though the build was smaller; Worick could _really_ see where Nic got his long limbs and sharp jaw from, along with the severe demeanor and cut throat confidence of ones own capabilities. Worick felt something inside him bubble, a long divested thing he’d buried deep down to a place where even Nic couldn’t reach.

 

Gaston Brown had aged for sure, but even with matured silver streaking his temples and a veteran’s wrinkle at the corner of his visible eye; he was still unmistakable – and he was still unmistakably a fucking bastard.

 

In this, Nic was nothing like him, he had this war tarnished sense of entitlement that meant he pushed in line at the bar, that expected people to move out of the way for him, that growled at people when they didn’t, that interrupted anyone who was speaking, that looked at people’s necks to make sure they weren’t wearing Tags, wearing Tags like his own fucking flesh and blood son who was standing on the rooftop at this very moment.

 

If he thought about his own father, Worick felt nothing more than a phantom itch of memory in his missing eye, but at this moment; maybe he finally understood some of the messed up thought processes Nic had gone through on the day that changed both their lives.

 

Worick could leave it, he _should_ leave it, but the thing was he just didn’t feel like it. He couldn’t figure out which part of him wanted it though, the ‘Wallace’ in him that wanted to get even, or the Worick he was now that wanted to make someone pay for all the miserable shit he’d put his partner through. It was probably a bit of both. His scar prickled this scornful mockery at Worick’s sentiments of justice, yeah, definitely a bit of both.

 

He could do it easy, but then there was Nic who had this freakish sense of intuition that would bring him down from the roof the moment Worick decided to do something drastic, it’d saved his ass on more than one occasion, and even though Nic never left the roof, never even set foot inside Bastard, it would be just fucking like him to do so this _one_ time out of 10.

 

What would happen then would be anyone’s guess. Life was a giant fucking guess here in Ergastulum and they’d been pretty swell up until now. One more mangled skeleton in the closet of his debauched childhood wasn’t going to change anything.

 

Abandoning his post, Worick trailed the figure that moved nowhere near as fluidly as his partner, and followed him down the hall that was perfectly empty, to the toilets. He took his post against the wall outside with a smoke perched in between his lips, fingering his holsters with arms folded and eye echoing his anticipation.

 

The minutes ticked over as his cigarette smoldered, Worick savored the burn in his lungs like his own personal Celebret, time always took this sort of clarity when it came down to it, the air sharpened his instincts, he didn’t know how long it’d actually been until he heard the sound of feet coming towards the door back to the hallway, the hinge creaked as it always did because people were too fucking slack to oil it, and out came Mr Brown, head high and proud even though he’d probably just taken a big stinky shit.

 

He was spared half a glance, a quick up and down in assessed threat, of course Worick was a completely different person from back then. There wasn’t even an ounce of recognition, there wouldn’t be, but it irked on him nonetheless.

 

Typically though, before he could get a word in, before Worick’s instincts could sound off that Nic was coming through the other door, there he was, already standing in the fucking hallway, and the words he was about to speak died in Worick’s throat as Nicolas Brown came face to face with his father.

 

And Gaston mightn’t have recognized Worick, not many people would after all, but he sure as hell recognized his own son, Nic was unmistakable no matter what age he was.

 

There he was in full view, two fucking steps into the hallway with his heavy combat boots, fitted cargo pants and loose shirt because it was Worick’s and not his own, and this was the sort of ironic situation that Worick would normally find amusing, because life really was the most satirical of bitches. The way his tags shone under the surreptitious lighting was just another reflection of that fact.

 

The predatory pause Nicolas held as his muscles tensed before a potential killing frenzy was the only thing that gave away any reaction at all, but other than that he just fucking stood there, a picture of all that was terrifying and brutal about Nicolas Brown, of everything that was beautiful and monstrous, a picture of all that Worick held close more than he’d ever fucking be able to put into words.

 

And then the sound of Gaston’s cold amusement echoed down the hall with the halfhearted lights shining down.

 

It pissed Worick off that Gaston’s minor reaction mirrored his son’s, pissed him off that he _laughed_ as he stood there because _he_ obviously found it comical. “Oho, so the monster still lives! Who’d have thought?”

 

Nic’s only response then was the impish shrug he always gave when he simply didn’t care, because of course there’d be no grand reunion with Nic, it was as simple as that one sign he’d learnt all the way back then. Kill, just because you can.

 

And this was what was truly disturbing about Nic, he’d kill his own father just because he could, not out of misplaced feelings or day old hate, in some twisted sentimental part of himself Worick couldn’t let him do that, couldn’t let Nic lower himself for that piece of shit, he wanted Nic to have his humanity that he’d fought tooth and nail for their whole lives, and more than all of that, he wanted to kill Gaston himself.

 

“Nicolas.” He moved off the wall then, taking satisfaction in the dying hiss of his smoke as he trampled it under foot with his step forward, “This one is mine.”

 

Oh, he existed to Gaston Brown then, and he was looked at with new regard as Nic just shrugged and dropped his hand away from that waiting katana at his waist.

 

“Yoo, remember me?” Worick drawled then, he should have killed him already, should have drawn his gun without notice and put the bullet in Gaston’s forehead, but he wanted Gaston to know who’d killed him.

 

Gaston’s reaction wasn’t as miniscule as his son’s, it wasn’t as smooth or as cool, and, it wasn’t as self assured either. Worick took satisfaction in that. “Ah, the Arcangelo boy. So you still have your pet.” There was a mirthless chuckle, but the old captain’s hand still twitched in want of a weapon. Even with one eye, no one could be blind to this situation.

 

“Na, you need a leash for those.” Worick deadpanned with slow steps forward, “He might be a Tag, but he’s _my_ Tag.” Worick left no doubt about his meaning, out of all the things he wanted Gaston to know, he wanted him to know that his son, a Tag, was important to someone, because nothing would disgust the man more.

 

From the corner of his perfect peripheral vision, he saw a feral smirk twist Nic’s lip. _“Get on with it.’_ Came the sign.

 

“Careful there, Master Wallace, one day he will bite the hand that feeds him.” There was a simmering of distaste in Gaston’s voice, baiting even as his hand moved towards his jacket at a speed only years of war and a life hard lived could give.

 

But Worick was younger, he was faster, he was stronger than most normals, and he was certainly stronger than an old man who’d seen more than his fair share of years. The thing inside him boiled over in that instant, it screamed for selfish retribution as Worick’s hand shot out to take Gaston by the throat, to knock away his weapon and press him against the wall with all the force a normal like him could muster. He could feel himself on the edge of a maniacal state; his instincts wanted this more than his logical thoughts did. “The thing is…” Worick snarled as he flipped up his own eye patch to reveal the scar Nic gave him. “I’ve already been bit.”

 

The Captain didn’t struggle much for someone who was about to meet his end, maybe it was because Worick had already lost himself, didn’t notice the way his feet kicked at the empty air as he was pushed higher up the wall, didn’t notice his coarse gasps as Worick crushed his windpipe with the strength of his pent up anger and resentment, all he noticed was the mocking gleam in Gaston’s eyes and the jeering smile on his lips, because Gaston could see Worick’s hate, and Gaston knew it was all Nic’s fault.

 

“He took everything from me.” Worick found himself admitting with a whispering growl, his free hand moving on its own, he raised his weapon, point blank to Gaston’s remaining eye, incidentally the same side as the one Nic took from him all those years ago, the pressure of the trigger under his finger was seducing, calling him to just curl his finger that extra inch and end it all.

 

“So, I figured I should at least take one thing from him.” With that, there was a tiny click of the drawback in his gun, followed by the instantaneous explosion of a bullet hissing from the barrel.

 

Close kills were always messy, something to be avoided if he could, there was no avoiding the answering spatter of blood as the bullet ripped through Gaston’s eye, his brain, and the back of his skull in a spray of murderous red against the wall behind him. The color was almost calming, satisfying even, if it weren’t for the blood still thrumming heavy in his veins with adrenaline and sick satisfaction.

 

The lifeless body hit the floor with a thump, the distinct weight of it only the sound a dead man could make, but before he could wipe the gore from his face, could loosen his shoulders or flex the tension from his fingers; Nic was already on him.

 

With wickedly graceful steps Nic closed the space, an equally wicked smile and a vicious gleam in his eye to match, the temperature of Worick’s blood only grew. Nic’s filthy strength groped the nape of his neck, buried itself in Worick’s hair in control, contentment and everything that said _“mine.”_ This was a teasing bait that Worick would never stand for, ever, there was _no_ control with Nic.

So he pinned Nic against the wall too, his hands on Nic’s ass as he wrapped those strong, steadfast legs around his waist. The grip in his hair tightened, a mockery of the strength Nicolas would always have over him, and smashed their lips together in the most earnestness Nic had ever shown him. It was primal and rough, painful, and soul razing, and everything about Nic that Worick would never truly hate, not anymore.

 

“Now…” Worick murmured as he pulled back, looked at his partner, “We’re even.”

 


End file.
